


Frayed

by squiddz



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Dissociation, Emotional hand jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23737024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiddz/pseuds/squiddz
Summary: "Aziraphale…" Crowley says, so gently. "Oh, there wasn't… you didn't have a trial."Aziraphale had prepared himself for a number of responses - that the trial had been one-sided, had been rigged, had been stacked entirely against him. He hadn't been prepared for nothing at all."What do you - there must have been a trial.Hellhad a trial."Crowley just stares at him, golden eyes full of sorrow, and the loose threads begin to unravel.--Aziraphale struggles to process 6000 years of repression. Thankfully Crowley is there to help.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 685





	Frayed

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you need to distract yourself when you're sad, sometimes you just gotta listen to Daughter for 48 hours straight and pour it all into a self-indulgent fic about your favourite characters.
> 
> All my love to anti_kate who gave me the push I needed to publish this.
> 
> CW for descriptions of anxiety attacks/dissociation/depressive episodes.

After they celebrate their newfound freedom, Aziraphale takes Crowley by the hand outside the Ritz and leads them back to the bookshop.

They take their time ambling through the streets of Soho - they have so much of it now, after all.

When they reach the front stoop, Aziraphale grabs hold of Crowley's lapels and pulls him in for a kiss. He is overflowing, full of a joy that's as bright and sparkling as champagne.

Crowley shoves his warm tongue into Aziraphale's mouth, and somehow they make it through the door despite the frantic tangling of their limbs.

Aziraphale doesn't want to stop touching Crowley, doesn't want to stop feeling that he's here and whole and safe. The back of his mind is still full of loose threads where it's starting to fray at the edges, but it's easy to forget all that while they’re pressed up against each other.

Aziraphale drops to his knees and traces the lines and divots of Crowley's body with his mouth, maps out Crowley’s skin with his tongue. They spend the rest of the day like that, exploring each other in all the ways they’ve wanted to for centuries.

Aziraphale can't remember the last time he was this happy.

* * *

A few days later, they're sitting on the sofa in the back of the bookshop. They've been getting pleasantly tipsy and laughing over silly stories for the last several hours, still floating on the tailend of their post-Armageddon high.

Aziraphale leans forward and rests his head on Crowley's shoulder, watches him pick up the wine bottle on the table and top up their drinks. He can’t help but admire how beautiful Crowley's hands are, the way the tendons move under his skin, how the light catches the spires of his knuckles.

Crowley passes him a glass. Aziraphale takes it, then grabs hold of his wrist, brings the hand to his lips to brush kisses along slender fingers. He's rewarded with a tender smile and the stroke of a thumb against his cheek.

Aziraphale still can't quite believe they get to have this, that he can just touch and kiss Crowley whenever he likes, without fear. Aziraphale is still so happy. But the loose threads are still there, too.

He lets go of Crowley’s wrist as he settles back into the sofa cushions, and peers into his wine until he finds his nerve at the bottom of the glass.

"You know, dear," he says, voice tearing just a little bit. "You never told me what _my_ trial was like. In Heaven, I mean."

Crowley goes very still. He doesn't have his glasses on, so Aziraphale can see the frenetic darting of his eyes over the floor, like he might find a suitable answer lodged between the fibers of the throw rug. When he finally lifts his gaze, Crowley is wearing an expression that makes Aziraphale feel like he's sitting on a bench in Tadfield again, waiting for a bus.

"Aziraphale…" Crowley says, so gently. "Oh, there wasn't… you didn't have a trial."

Aziraphale had prepared himself for a number of responses - that the trial had been one-sided, had been rigged, had been stacked entirely against him. He hadn't been prepared for nothing at all.

"What do you - there must have been a trial. _Hell_ had a trial."

Crowley just stares at him, golden eyes full of sorrow, and the loose threads begin to unravel.

"What happened, then?"

Crowley slouches backwards with a hiss and slowly deflates into the sofa. "Well, there was Gabriel. A couple of other archangels, too. They got out the hellfire and then… they told me - or rather, _you_ \- to walk into it."

Aziraphale can feel bits of himself coming apart, can feel the stitches that hold him together coming undone.

"And that was it? They couldn’t even _pretend_ to want to hear my side of it? They didn’t--"

The words stick in his throat as something hot and painful pours out of his torn seams.

"Oi, Aziraphale." Crowley touches his forearm softly, and he tries to focus on that point of contact, the warmth of Crowley’s palm. "Fuck them, alright? Fuck the entire lot of them."

Aziraphale shuts his eyes tightly and does what he's always done when he feels himself begin to split open. He ties all the ripped edges back together in tight little knots until all the holes have disappeared. With a slight shake of his head, he opens his eyes again.

"Of course, yes. It's fine. Let's carry on with the merlot, shall we?" He smiles, but it's stretched far too thinly across his face.

Crowley's brow pinches together. "Angel, we can talk about--"

"No," he says, a little more firmly than he means. "I'm sorry I even brought it up. You were telling me about your caper in Sardinia, let's get back to that."

Crowley looks like he wants to push it further, but instead his shoulders fall in resignation and he picks up his wine glass.

Aziraphale drinks until he no longer has to pretend that he doesn't feel anything.

* * *

The next day, he wakes up feeling disoriented. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but somehow he’s in the creaky old bed that lives in the room above the bookshop, wearing his pyjamas.

The down-filled mattress sags behind him, so he rolls over and finds Crowley sitting on the edge of the bed. He's fully dressed and runs a hand up and down Aziraphale's forearm.

“You ready to get up, love?”

Aziraphale doesn’t want to move, or even think really, but the light filtering in from behind the curtains looks bright and guilt starts bearing down on him like the weight of the ocean.

He makes himself sit up and rubs the sleep from his eyes. “What time is it?”

“About half past one.”

His stomach fills with a cold panic, like he’s forgotten to do something, but he's not exactly sure what.

“Was thinking we could go for lunch at that place you love round the corner?” Crowley gingerly takes his hand, wraps it up in his own. “The one with the red awning outside?”

The thought of food makes his skin burn, but Crowley is wearing such a gentle smile and there's so much fragile hope held carefully between his lips, that he can’t find it in him to say no. He expends a quick miracle to change his clothes and lets Crowley guide him downstairs and out onto the street.

They sit at their usual spot, tucked away in a quiet corner of the cafe. Crowley orders for them while Aziraphale stares at the whorls that streak through the wooden tabletop. The soft drone of chatter and the low rumble of traffic outside are muffled, distant - the world sits behind a wall of fog.

It takes a moment for Crowley’s voice to filter through.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale’s head snaps up to find a pair of dark lenses fixed on him from across the table.

“What do you think, then?”

Aziraphale blinks a few times as guilt tightens around his chest. “Erm, yes, that sounds fine, dear.”

Crowley furrows his brow a little and tilts his head to the side. “I asked if you wanted to do the British Museum or the RA tomorrow."

“Right yes… I meant they both sound fine, I don’t mind.”

"Okay," Crowley says warily. "We'll just see how we feel in the morning, then."

Aziraphale chides himself for not paying more attention, frustrated that he won't just pull himself together.

A cheerful server comes to their table with two cups of coffee and puts a plate down in front of Aziraphale. He stares at it, at the two golden crepes folded neatly around slices of strawberries and bananas. The white cream on top is melting, slowly sliding down the sides. He prods at the fruit with his fork and his jaw starts wiring itself shut.

Everything is wrong - they shouldn't be sitting here like this, out in the open where anyone can see. He's told himself to be more careful, to stop thoughtlessly putting them in harm's way all the time. But he just can't stop himself from selfishly devouring every scrap of attention Crowley will give him. And he is _so_ selfish. Aziraphale is a useless frivolous thing, and he lets Crowley risk his own neck, again and again, just to save his worthless life.

“Aziraphale? Are you alright?”

Somewhere on the edge of his vision, Crowley leans across the table to touch the back of his hand. Dimly, he registers pain where the fork is biting into his palm under his cast iron grip, and he lets go. It falls to the table with a clatter.

His eyes screw shut, but he isn't sure whether he’s trying to bring his focus back to his surroundings or block everything out. Crowley’s voice is still there, but it’s just a murmur now, white noise crackling at the periphery.

He doesn't know how it's all gone so wrong, why he's still coming apart. He doesn't know why he can't just tie off the hanging threads and cut away the ends. He doesn’t know why this is still so difficult.

His thoughts run away from him until he hears a soft puff of wind rush overhead. A soothing pressure starts running in circles between his shoulder blades, and his mind traces the movements over and over, until he at last feels himself regain control of his body.

He takes a shaky breath in and out before he opens his eyes.

It’s still dark. He doesn’t understand, until the darkness rearranges itself and splinters into strips of white light. Crowley’s feathers whisper against each other as he adjusts his wings, his palm still steadily rubbing at Aziraphale’s back. The tips of his primaries sway a little so Aziraphale reaches out to touch them. They’re soft, shifting from black to green to purple underneath his fingertips.

"You with me, angel?"

He turns his head to the side to look at Crowley. Under the dark canopy of feathers, his eyes are a pair of harvest moons.

"Yes, I'm… I'm alright."

Crowley nods, though his face is still wrought with concern. Something twists uncomfortably in Aziraphale’s stomach, knowing he’s the cause.

"Do you want anything? Maybe a hot cocoa?"

As he gets to his feet his wings tuck back into the space between dimensions, and Aziraphale is sad to see them go. Without the veil of feathers, it becomes clear that they aren’t in the cafe anymore.

"Where are we?"

Crowley freezes, looks back over his shoulder with a frown. "Aziraphale, we're in the bookshop." He kneels in front of him and cups his face with warm broad hands. "We walked back here, remember?"

Aziraphale can’t remember, but he nods anyway. Crowley strokes his hair before he gets back up to his feet and stalks off somewhere out of Aziraphale’s line of sight. He can hear the tinkling of crockery, a spoon rattling against the kitchenette countertop, and it helps the bookshop come into focus around him.

Crowley sits down next to him on the sofa again and presses a warm mug into Aziraphale’s hands.

“Just the way you like it, enough sugar to dissolve your teeth on contact.”

Steam wafts up from the mug and curls around his face, burns at his eyes and his nostrils. He is suddenly filled with the immediate need to touch Crowley, to make sure that he’s alright, to feel that he’s really there and wasn't just scrubbed out of existence. With shaking hands, he sets the cocoa down on the coffee table and buries his face into the crook of Crowley's neck. The skin there is warm, stretched over cords of muscles, and it smells of cologne with a hint of charcoal underneath.

"Crowley, I…" He doesn’t know what words he wants, so he wraps his arms around Crowley’s shoulders instead and pulls them closer together.

"You're alright, love," Crowley says softly into his ear. He slides his hand up and down Aziraphale’s spine. “I’m right here.”

Aziraphale needs to be closer still. He scrambles to straddle Crowley’s lap, drapes himself over Crowley's frame, presses their chests and their bellies together until there isn’t a part of him that doesn’t feel Crowley there, tangible and solid.

Firm hands massage at his thighs, warm breath tickles his skin where kisses land on his temple. Aziraphale curls his fingers into the black silk of Crowley’s shirt and crushes their mouths together, frantically shoving his tongue past Crowley’s lips.

The hands on his thighs move to his rear and fingertips dig into his flesh. A horribly needy whine slips out of him as he grinds himself into Crowley, desperate to find more friction. Deft fingers work at his fly, undoing the buttons and reaching into his trousers to stroke him to hardness.

"I've got you, angel," Crowley whispers. Aziraphale whimpers into Crowley’s mouth, thrusts his hips into Crowley’s grip. "That's it, just relax."

It only takes a few more strokes for Aziraphale to come over Crowley's fingers with a soft cry. All the tension in his limbs unfurls and he slumps forward into Crowley's shoulder, making a mess of them both.

Everything is still for a while. There is only the rise and fall of Crowley’s breathing, his unfailing heartbeat, the occasional bob of his throat as he swallows.

Eventually, Crowley maneuvers him back onto the sofa. After summoning a few miracles to clean them both up, he reaches for the mug of cocoa and places it back in Aziraphale's hands.

"Get that in you, eh?"

He plants a kiss into Aziraphale's hair as he gets up off the sofa, and starts moving stacks of papers and books that have piled up in dusty corners over the years.

Aziraphale slowly sips at his drink and listens to Crowley as he tidies.

* * *

The next week passes by in a haze.

Aziraphale sleeps until Crowley gently urges him out of bed, and then he shuffles downstairs where he sits in his armchair and stares blankly at the pages of a book. For a few days, Crowley tries to get them outside and doing things - visits to museums and galleries, walks through parks and markets. No matter how much he wants to enjoy it, Aziraphale can't focus, just mindlessly wanders from room to room of the Tate Modern or drifts along with the bustling crowd through Borough Market.

He almost goes catatonic after an ill-conceived stroll past the duck pond in St James's Park, and Crowley has to take him home.

After that, Crowley doesn't press him to leave the bookshop anymore.

Crowley still brings him food from his favourite places, quietly nudges him to eat something. He tries, doesn't want to be a disappointment, but he can't bring himself to take more than a few bites at a time. He can see the look on Crowley's face when he takes away plates of untouched pad thai or assorted fruit pastries, and it's a lance to the heart each time.

He sleeps later and later into the day, often just lying in bed for hours once he’s awake. The guilt is a stone around his neck, weighing him down into the pillows. He wants to celebrate his new life with Crowley, wants to take him to see Shakespeare and dine with him at the Ritz. He wants to be happy.

Instead he lies under his floral print quilt and stares at the window where light seeps in through the threadbare curtains. There's a painful hollowness inside his chest that he wishes he could fill - with sadness, with anger, anything at all. But the gaping emptiness just aches and aches and aches.

So he shuts his eyes and lets himself sink back into sleep, where he thinks of nothing.

* * *

Aziraphale wakes up and everything is dark.

Next to him, the outline of Crowley's shoulders and back glow with the orange haze of street lights that spills in from the window. His ribs expand and collapse with the gentle rhythm of sleep.

Aziraphale watches him for a while before he gets out of bed and changes into his usual clothes. His legs carry him towards the staircase and down into the shop below. The flashing lights from across the road cut strange shadows through the bookshelves, turn the floor into a neon-powered kaleidoscope.

Before he even really knows what he's doing, Aziraphale steps outside and starts walking.

London nightlife ebbs and flows around him as he drifts past crowded bars and slips down quiet streets. He passes by people laughing and shouting, someone leaning against a building throwing up on the pavement, a homeless man sleeping in the doorway of an office block, another tucked into the alcove down the side of a bank.

It doesn't occur to him to think about where he's going until he's most of the way down Fleet Street. Ahead, the dome of St Paul's Cathedral fights to make an appearance in a gap between buildings. There was a time when it was the tallest thing in London. Now it's mostly obscured by the columns of glass and chrome that crowd the center of the city.

The dome shines like a beacon, flooded with the amber glow of a dozen spotlights, and he walks towards it until he's standing at the bottom of the front steps. The Baroque facade stares down at him imperiously as he climbs the stairs to the heavy wooden door. It swings open at his touch and he steps across the threshold.

He's not sure what he expected, if he was hoping to be greeted with a burst of divine light, or for the checkered floor to scorch the souls of his feet. But nothing happens. The church is dark and empty, completely silent except for the click of his Oxfords against the marble.

He walks down the center aisle until he's standing underneath the dome, in the middle of the eight grand arches that hold it up, and he lifts his eyes towards the ceiling.

He remembers watching the cathedral take shape, rising from the ashes of the Great Fire. There'd been other temples on this site, too, and he remembers all of them. He remembers how they kept burning down, and how the humans just kept rebuilding them anyway, stubbornly insisting that a church needed to stand here.

The first time he set foot in this version of St Paul's, he'd marveled at the vaulted ceilings and great white arches, at human cleverness and resilience. He had stood in this same spot under the dome, sunlight streaming in through the windows, and felt all the love and faith that had built it - right through to his core, to the tips of his wings. Surely Heaven must have seen how humans used the gifts She'd given them, must have understood how they loved Her, how they simply wanted to be nearer to Her.

His eyes catch on the paintings of angels that adorn the bottom of the dome and he realises now that Heaven had not cared. Heaven would have allowed all of this to burn once more, to crumble and return to dust. All of that love and faith hadn't meant anything.

Aziraphale takes a seat in the nearest row of chairs and watches as the cathedral slowly fills with light - milky grey at first, until at last everything is gilded with the pale gold of early morning.

Humans start filtering in as well. Members of the clergy and volunteer staff arrive to sort through books of hymns and clean the organ, to get the altar ready for service later. When the doors open to the public, worshippers and tourists alike start wandering the aisles. None of them pay him any mind.

People come and go in the chairs around him, bowing their heads or just staring at the ceiling. Many of them light votive candles before they sit down. Aziraphale can hear every prayer. They’re the same as they have always been - a parent with a sick child, a grief-stricken partner, financial instability, systemic inequality. Heaven never cared enough to give him the power to help all of them.

And yet, even after all their loss and suffering, they still love Her. They love Her so much. They build Her monuments, they dictate their lives by Her rules, they deny themselves things She created. And they all would have been wiped out of existence anyway.

The tattered seams that are holding him together finally split, and everything - his grief, his anger, all of it - rushes into the empty void in his chest. He drops his head into his hands and weeps.

He cries harder than he did on the dried floodplains of Mesopotamia, or wandering through the plague-ridden streets of Florence, cries harder than he did surrounded by olive trees in Gethsemane, or along the blood-red banks of the Nile. He cries until he can’t cry anymore, until every part of him has been shredded to ribbons. He sits there, a pile of rags, listening to the prayers and the guided tours, and he has no idea how he can ever put himself back together.

"Aziraphale?"

There’s a gentle touch on his arm and Aziraphale looks up from his hands to find Crowley sitting next to him. Sunlight is slanting in through the windows of the dome and it catches in his hair, wreaths him in flames.

“Crowley, how…”

His face is difficult to read with his eyes obscured behind his glasses, but there's a hard set to his jaw and he swallows noticeably.

“Aziraphale--” His voice is like sandpaper. “What are you doing here?”

Aziraphale just stares at him, vaguely aware that there is something wrong about Crowley being in a church.

“Let’s go home, shall we? Can we do that?” He hooks a hand under Aziraphale’s shoulder and gently coaxes him to his feet. They walk down the central aisle together, past clusters of tourists and rows of candles, while Crowley keeps a loose grip on Aziraphale’s elbow.

He doesn’t let go until they’re outside at the bottom of the stairs. Crowley lets out a hiss, a long exhale through his teeth, before taking Aziraphale's face in both his hands.

“Why--” He stops himself and shakes his head slightly. “Please - _please_ don’t just disappear on me, angel.” His voice cracks and the panic underneath drips out.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley makes a sound - a strangled, pained laugh - and pulls him into a warm embrace. “There’s nothing to forgive, alright? I just… I was so frightened when I woke up and you weren’t there.”

Guilt claws at his stomach and Aziraphale only narrowly avoids apologising a second time. He hides his face in Crowley's shoulder instead.

“Shall we go home?” he asks again. Aziraphale nods and the fabric of Crowley's jacket scratches against his cheek.

Crowley takes him by the hand and leads the way. They go slowly, weaving through the crowded arteries of central London. They pass more of Christopher Wren's churches, all their favourite bakeries and tea rooms, until they're back in Soho.

When they reach the bookshop, all the commotion of the city is left behind them, shut out behind the door. Crowley ushers them through to the back of the shop and up the stairs, into the bedroom. He sits them down on the unmade bed, amongst the crumpled blankets and scattered pillows, and takes Aziraphale's hands tightly in his own. The glasses are gone now, and without them his heartache is laid bare. His eyes are watery, gold diluted to the colour of straw.

"Aziraphale… look, it’s fine if you don’t want to talk to me. You don’t ever have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But I'm here, alright? And I want to help you."

With nothing left to hold it in anymore, Aziraphale lets his heart spill out onto the cotton sheets.

"They didn't care, Crowley." His voice is breaking and he can't stop the tears. "I tried my best, I did everything they asked of me, even when it was difficult. All that time, everything we went through… it was all for nothing. I thought they loved me, but it was only ever conditional. They didn't care about me. I never mattered.”

The words burn his throat as he sobs, and Crowley pulls him in tightly, one hand firmly between his shoulder blades, the other holding the back of his head.

“You matter to me,” he says, voice in splinters. “You matter to me so fucking much.”

Aziraphale's chest fills with six thousand years of silent devotion, and he wraps all of it around Crowley.

Crowley, who had watched alongside him as humanity did all manner of wondrous and clever things, who mourned with him at their atrocities. Crowley, who took him out for dinners and accompanied him to plays, who drank his wine and saved his books. Crowley, who sat patiently at arm's length for years, who faced Heaven for him and walked headlong into flames.

Crowley, who loved him, and had always loved him.

He leans back and cups Crowley's face between his hands before pressing their lips together. Softly at first, until the need to feel and taste every part of Crowley takes over. Their noses bump together as they deepen the kiss, hands desperate to touch more skin. Aziraphale fumbles with Crowley’s belt buckle, pulling at it uselessly with a whimper. Crowley takes hold of his forearm and gently kisses the underside of his wrist. "Just lie back, angel."

He allows Crowley's weight to guide him backwards, falling into the pile of pillows stacked up along the headboard. The air ripples with occult energy as their clothes are miracled away, and Aziraphale stares at Crowley’s naked body, at the broad plane of his chest and the dip at the bottom of his throat.

Crowley spreads his legs apart and reverently brushes tender kisses to the inside of Aziraphale’s knee, along the length of his thigh. He works his way up, dragging his lips over Aziraphale’s stomach and chest, until he’s kissing a trail along his jawline. Aziraphale lets himself love and be loved fearlessly.

“Let me take care of you.” Crowley’s voice is a hot breath against his ear. He rocks his hips and it draws a desperate moan out of Aziraphale’s lungs.

Miraculously slick fingers start working him open, and he sighs into the touch, dissolves into the mattress. Crowley sits up on his knees to position himself at Aziraphale’s entrance, and then he's sliding in, slowly, gradually. It’s so much, the steady sensation of being filled and stretched, and Aziraphale's eyelids flutter shut.

Once he’s fully seated, Crowley starts drawing himself in and out. The friction sends hot waves up Aziraphale's body, fills his chest with bright golden light. He opens his eyes and Crowley is looking down at him like he’s made of stars. Aziraphale wants more.

“Can you - please - your wings?”

A breeze dances across his skin as iridescent feathers unfold and fill the space above him, until all he can see is Crowley beaming down at him, radiant as the moon against a shimmering black sky.

"Gorgeous," Aziraphale breathes.

Crowley lifts Aziraphale's legs up onto his shoulders and the next time he thrusts, he hits a spot inside Aziraphale that makes his back arch off the bed.

“Ahh - yes, right there.”

There's a mounting pressure in his belly, a glowing heat building up behind his ribs. Above him, black wings beat gently as Crowley keeps up a steady rhythm, and a flush of pink blossoms across his face from the effort.

Aziraphale twists his fingers into the sheets and keens as pleasure floods his veins.

"Crowley, I'm…"

"I've got you, love."

Long fingers reach down and stroke him. The pleasure overflows and he releases all over his stomach with a broken cry of Crowley’s name. As his body convulses with aftershocks, he can hear Crowley choke out a breathy moan, feels him shudder and flap his wings one last time before they fold away. Crowley collapses in a heap off to the side, and they lie next to each other, legs tangled up together.

“You alright, angel?”

Aziraphale rolls his head to the side to look at him. His hair is matted against his forehead and he’s smiling blissfully, gazing through heavy lids. He almost looks drunk and Aziraphale can’t help but smile back at him.

“Much more than alright, my dear.”

"Good." He places a sweet kiss on Aziraphale's shoulder. "I cared, by the way. I was watching, I saw how much you tried. It meant something to me."

The tattered heart in Aziraphale's chest swells. "I know."

"And you were far more rebellious than you give yourself credit for." Crowley's smile takes on a mischievous curve. "You did plenty of things you weren't supposed to do."

"Hmm, sometimes, I suppose."

" _Sometimes?_ I distinctly recall falling in love with an angel that gave away his holy weapon. Big sharp thing, might have burst into flames from time to time. Is this ringing any bells at all?"

Aziraphale laughs softly. "Fine, perhaps you're right."

Crowley just hums in return, and they drift into contented silence.

Aziraphale loses track of how long they stay like that. He could stay here forever, Crowley's warm breath grazing his shoulder, a slender arm across his chest, skin against sweat-damp skin. His heart leaps when he remembers that they could if they wanted - they have all the time in the world now to make love till sunrise and sleep till noon. They can go for walks in the park and eat crepes together in little cafes. They can love and hope and exist as recklessly as they want.

He reaches out a hand and caresses Crowley's cheek, still stained a lovely shade of pink. As the daze of the afterglow lifts and his mind begins to process earlier events, it finally dawns on him that Crowley walked into a church to find him.

“Oh, my dear, your feet! Are they hurt?”

Crowley chuckles and tilts his head to plant a kiss on Aziraphale's palm. "Nah, we weren't in there for too long."

“I’m so sorry I worried you.”

"It's okay," Crowley says gently. "I just hope you found what you were looking for."

Aziraphale stares deeply into Crowley's eyes. The late afternoon sun floods through the curtains and it bathes him in gold.

"Yes, darling," he says. "I believe I did."

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://heavens-bookshop.tumblr.com)!


End file.
